


love at first scarf

by troubadore



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Fluff, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:34:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28459104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubadore/pseuds/troubadore
Summary: He eyes a scarf in the middle of the rack, dyed a soft blue the color of the morning sky. That'll do. He reaches for it, fingertips brushing the soft material for a beat before another hand darts in and bumps against his. Both Geralt and the other hand pause, and Geralt looks up to see who's trying to take the scarf he's picked out.Blue eyes—almost the same color as the scarf, a clear, crystal blue—meet his own, wide and round. Dark hair sweeps over them, and pink lips are parted in a smallObeneath them. Geralt can't help but stare.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 152





	love at first scarf

**Author's Note:**

> was looking thru my docs and found this which was the original draft for my geraskier holiday exchange fic before i went with what i posted
> 
> have some dweebs experiencing love at first ~~scarf~~ sight ~

Geralt had forgotten just how  _ much _ a festival can be. 

He makes a point to avoid towns and cities as much as possible for that specific reason. Sounds too loud, people too close, smells too strong and pungent—everything just  _ too much _ . It makes his head pound in the space behind his eyes, makes his skin crawl and pull taut over his bones. It makes him clench his jaw so hard it aches for hours after, and for the rest of the day he's even more irritable than usual. 

Overall, it's not pleasant, so he avoids them when possible. But this year he'd promised Ciri he'd attend one with her. 

_ It's been so long since I got to enjoy one.  _ She'd given him  _ that _ look, the one that melts him inside and makes him want to do anything to put a smile on her face.  _ Please? For me, Dad? _

Geralt had cursed his soft heart internally and agreed; it was absolutely worth it for the way her eyes lit up and she'd pumped a fist in the air in excitement. She'd gone off to tell Yennefer that she'd be spending the winter season—and subsequently Yuletide—with him at the keep this year, and he'd made a point not to react to any of the knowing smirks Yen sent his way via letters. 

And, really, he supposes this one isn't  _ that _ terrible. The smell of cooking meats wafts from the stalls, heady and savory. He can taste the spiced wine in the air, and it would make him drunk if he didn't have the mutagens in his blood to dampen the effect of alcohol. Vendors call out their wares, tempting festival-goers to stop and have a look and spend their hard-earned coin on frivolous material possessions. Children run through the streets, laughing and shrieking with delight as they play games between the legs of the adults. 

It's bearable. Mostly. His temples are starting to throb, though, and his skin is buzzing, his muscles tense as people push up against him and yell right beside his ear. He can feel it becoming  _ too much,  _ but he pushes his discomfort aside and presses on. 

If it weren't for Ciri at his side, hanging on his arm and pointing out things she wants to see, a bright smile on her face and eyes shining, he'd have left before he set foot in the town. 

"Oh, look at that, Dad!" 

She lifts an arm, pointing to a stall in the distance with whatever it is she's seen. Before he can ask what exactly  _ that  _ is, she's off, leaving him in the middle of the street to go look at whatever's taken her fancy. He follows behind, feeling the corner of his mouth tug up in an indulgent grin. 

The shop she's found is selling little trinkets and baubles, all handcrafted items that show impressive skill. There are hairpins and brooches, as well as a few displays of necklaces, amulets, and other bangles and bracelets. Swathes of cloth hang from the overhead canopy, silk and wool and leather, and farther in the shop he can see mannequins modeling the clothing made with it. 

He leaves Ciri cooing over the jewelry to peruse the shelves of incense and herbs he catches sight of. His stock isn't in terrible shape, but they've got a few things here that are hard to come by on the Path, and it wouldn't be terrible to have a bit more. There's also a shelf of candles, oils, and perfumes, and he thinks he might get gifts for Ciri and Yennefer for Yuletide other than more swords and books. 

He grabs two lavender colored candles that remind him of Yen when he sniffs them and a bottle of perfume whose scent is described as "honey and warm amber" for Ciri. He's not sure exactly what that means, but it smells good, soft and indeed warm, and he thinks she'll like it. 

With those gifts taken care of, he wanders further into the shop, back to the clothing and fabrics. Vesemir had gifted Ciri a new cloak for Yuletide the year before, and his own shirts are only a couple months old now, recently bought, so they have no pressing need for new outfits, but he still examines what's on offer, letting his fingers trail over the silks and satins. 

There's a rack of scarves against one wall, and Geralt moves over to it. Winters at the keep can be harsh and the halls are often filled with bitingly cold drafts that seep in through the cracks. It makes it less than inviting to get out of their warm beds to attend to chores. 

To his surprise, he sees a small selection of cashmere scarves mixed in among the more common wool. The goats whose hair is used to make it are extremely rare these days; he hadn't thought any were left in this region. 

He thinks first of Lil Bleater, then of Eskel, and snorts to himself imagining his brother wearing it. It's perfect, really—Lambert will give him shit for buying it but Eskel will come to him later and thank him for it, because that's just how he is, and he'll wear it the rest of the season. 

He eyes a scarf in the middle of the rack, dyed a soft blue the color of the morning sky. That'll do. He reaches for it, fingertips brushing the soft material for a beat before another hand darts in and bumps against his. Both Geralt and the other hand pause, and Geralt looks up to see who's trying to take the scarf he's picked out. 

Blue eyes—almost the same color as the scarf, a clear, crystal blue—meet his own, wide and round. Dark hair sweeps over them, and pink lips are parted in a small  _ O  _ beneath them. Geralt can't help but stare. 

"Oh! Terribly sorry about that!" He watches those pink lips curl into a bright smile, those eyes crinkling at the corners. "Didn't realize anyone else was looking at this one." 

"It's fine," Geralt says absently. He swallows, hand tightening on the scarf, and realizes the man's hand is still on his when his flexing knuckles brush against a warm palm. Slowly, he pulls his own back. He swears sparks skitter up his skin where they had touched. "I can get another. You-you can have this one." 

The man shakes his head, still smiling. "No, no, really! If you want it, you can have it. I probably have too many as it is, honestly. I really don't need another. You're doing me a favor at this point. Please. I insist." 

Geralt feels tongue-tied as the man pulls the scarf from the rack and pushes it into his hands as he talks, eyes taking in his tousled hair and ruddy cheeks, no doubt from the chilled wind outside. His outfit is garishly bright, matching doublet and trousers with fine stitching and embroidery, obviously expensive—but charming in its own way, and it fits the man, he thinks, even though Geralt knows absolutely nothing about him. There's an instrument strapped to his back, a lute, and he amends the thought: he knows the man is a bard, which explains quite a bit. 

He's still smiling at Geralt, looking at him expectantly, and Geralt realizes he'd tuned him out at some point, just letting his voice wash over him and staring. Gods, how embarrassing. 

"Mm," he says, completely blanking on what might have been said and hoping for the best. Thankfully, it just makes the man laugh. 

"I asked if it was a gift for yourself or someone else," he repeats. "My coin's on someone else. Not to say that you wouldn't look dashing in it, don't get me wrong—" 

"Someone else," Geralt manages, holding the scarf tighter. "My brother. He likes goats." 

Those blue eyes blink at him, that pink mouth still open on a cut off word. The man presses his lips together after another second and nods slowly, and Geralt wants to melt into the ground at the way those eyes twinkle like they're laughing at him. 

"Well," he says, "I hope your brother likes his goat hair scarf. I've got a couple of my own, so I can say with confidence they're highly recommended. Very soft. Very warm." 

"Yeah," Geralt murmurs, feeling his own face flushed hot. Witchers aren't even supposed to be able to blush, but he's always been the odd one out. "Thanks." 

The man watches him for another moment, eyes still glittering in the warm afternoon light spilling into the store. Finally, he offers a little wave and turns on his heel, whistling a merry tune as he sees himself out of the store. 

_ Fuck,  _ Geralt thinks, looking down at the scarf. It really does match those eyes beautifully. Maybe— 

"Dad! There you are!" 

Geralt turns as Ciri comes up behind him holding her own bag of purchases. She eyes the scarf still in his hands before looking in the direction the man went. 

"Well?" she asks pointedly, and he blinks at her. 

"Well what." 

"Are you going after him or not?" She gives him an encouraging smile. "I could hear your thoughts from across the room. And his. He'd like to see you again. He thinks you're very handsome." 

He sighs.  _ Handsome? Really?  _ "Ciri—"

"Come on, Dad!" She nudges him playfully in the arm. "Live a little! It's Yuletide, after all. Magic and love are in the air. Give them a chance." She looks up at him, widening her eyes in another one of  _ those  _ looks. "For me?" 

Geralt groans at those magic words, feeling himself give in. Fuck it—why not? The man hadn't run screaming from him when he first saw him; his white hair and yellow eyes aren't subtle, and everyone knows what they mean. That has to mean something, right? 

"Fine," he says to his daughter, and she just continues smiling knowingly. Too much like her mother. "You're as bad as Yen, you know that?" 

"Mom's the best teacher," she says sagely, and he can't disagree with that. 

He pays for the scarf and the other gifts, tucking them away in Roach's saddlebags for the trip back to the keep. He keeps the scarf tucked in his cloak, wondering where to start in his search for the man with such pretty blue eyes. 

Recalling the lute strapped to his brightly clad back, he sets off for the square in the middle of town. He can hear the distant sounds of musicians performing even from here, even recognizes some of the carols being sung above the din of the crowds. It's as good a place to begin as any. 

He pushes his way through the festival goers as gently as he can, trying to be as unimposing as possible. Some people catch sight of him and give him a wide berth, and others simply give him a wary glance before hurrying on. Either way, they don't impede his way to the square, and for that, he's thankful. 

It turns out his hunch is right: in the middle of the square, balanced gracefully on the edge of a fountain, is the pretty man from the store, lute in hand and singing strong and loud over his audience. Deft fingers pluck quick notes and his voice is just as rich and warm in singing as in talking. His cheeks are reddened with the flush of movement, his dark hair even more tousled by the wind, and the top few buttons of his doublet are undone to scandalously display his chest. 

Geralt wonders if he's feeling the bite of the wind up there dancing around—even his mutations aren't keeping the full brunt of it from his own skin. He remembers the scarf in his hands, feeling the soft brush of it against his fingertips. Watching the man—the bard—he thinks about how to go about this. 

The bard finishes his performance with a flourish, eyes bright as he takes his bows. "Thank you!" he calls out with a laugh. "You've been the best audience a performer like me could ask for! Lots of love and cheer to you all this Yuletide!" 

Geralt watches as he jumps from his perch on the fountain, drinking deeply from a wineskin as people toss coins in his lute case open at his feet. He slowly makes his way forward, one heavy step at a time, trying to figure out what to say, what excuse he might give for chasing the man down like this. 

He hasn't come up with anything by the time he's in front of the man and those blue eyes are on him again, just as bright and wide as in the shop. 

"Hello again!" he says cheerfully, and Geralt wonders if he's ever not cheerful. He hopes not. "Miss me already, did you?" 

Feeling the heat of embarrassment—an almost foreign concept—creep into his cheeks again, Geralt only hums softly. Fuck, why are words always so hard at a time like this? "I, uh. My daughter said I should. Find you." 

Pink lips stay curled in a grin even as perfect brows arch into that sweep of dark hair. "Oh?" 

"Yes." Geralt looks at the scarf in his hands, and then holds it out; an offering. "For you." 

Amused blue eyes glance down, then seem to soften as he slowly reaches out, his fingers dancing over the fabric. They hover over Geralt's fingers, trailing soft as a whisper over his skin. He's glad he forgot to put his gloves back on at some point. 

The bard looks back up at him as his hand comes to rest on the scarf, not taking, but not rejecting, either. "I thought you said this was a gift for your brother?" 

"That was the original plan," Geralt agrees. He makes himself keep eye contact even as his cheeks feel like they're on fire. "But—I thought it matches your eyes better." 

The bard takes the scarf from him gently, and Geralt thinks he purposefully brushes their hands together as he does so. It slips from Geralt's hands easily, smooth as water, and he watches as the bard holds it up against his face, burying his nose in it. Like it's comforting. 

"Thank you," he murmurs, just loud enough for Geralt to hear—something just for them. "I love it. Though, as I haven't met your brother, I suppose I can't say whether it works better for me than him, can I." 

Geralt opens his mouth to say  _ He's got the same eyes as me,  _ but stops himself when he sees the way the bard's mouth curls up in a teasing little smile. It's a suggestion, he realizes. A suggestion that maybe— 

Maybe he could meet his brothers, his family, himself. 

Maybe this could go somewhere. 

Geralt suddenly very, very much wants it to go somewhere. 

"I'm Jaskier, by the way," the bard says. He pulls the scarf away from his face so he can wrap it around his neck. It's long, though, and he steps closer to Geralt, throwing one end of it around his neck, tugging him forward another step. His finger taps against the medallion around his neck. "What's your name, witcher?"

He can't look away from those bright blue eyes. "Geralt." 

"Geralt," Jaskier repeats, and he really likes the way his name sounds in the bard's voice—like it's the sweetest thing he's ever tasted. Like he wants to savor it. 

Geralt would like to let him. 

"Well, Geralt," Jaskier says, and his breath is warm on his cheek as he leans in close. "Thank you for the beautiful gift. Allow me to give you one in return?" 

Geralt finds his mouth too preoccupied to even think of saying no. 

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](http://twitter.com/troubadorer) / [tumblr](http://geraltofriviasleftbuttcheek.tumblr.com)


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